


Freefallin

by elephantshell



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, Physical Abuse, References to Suicide, Sexual Abuse, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-24 06:28:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/631439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elephantshell/pseuds/elephantshell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa Stark sits on her perch and remembers that little birds can fly. Set in modern day mob!verse</p>
            </blockquote>





	Freefallin

Sansa is glad her room has a balcony. When she thinks about it, it's a real risk Cersei took, giving her the room with the balcony. She could find a way to escape, after all. Tie every sheet and dress she owns together and shimmy her way down. But Cersei probably thinks she's too stupid to figure it out, and Sansa knows she's too afraid to try. In any case, she'd probably be shot the instant she touched ground. Or worse, she'd be giving Joff a legitimate excuse to knock her around. Besides, home was a far walk. And three stories is a long way to fall. But the balcony does give her some form of escape. If she's willing to try.

She sits by the edge, her chin resting on the guardrail, and she looks down. The garden is opulent, just like everything in The Landing. The rosebushes are manicured to perfection, the grass no more than an inch high, and in the center, an honest-to-God fountain. Cersei is an obsessive decorator, furnishing the manor with the newest and priciest rugs, couches, chandeliers. When she first arrived, Sansa was enamored by the glitziness of The Landing, but now she thinks it gaudy and tacky and she wonders how someone as Old Money as Cersei Lannister could possibly find this at all appealing. She missed the simple décor of home. Rustic, sure, but now she appreciates the earthy scents, and the modesty of it all. And the love inside of it. The love made Winterfell more beautiful than any modern art pieces ever could.

It's a chilly night, probably unbearable to the Lannisters. But she's a Stark of the North. She knows winter, and she knows that this autumn breeze isn't even the beginning. Still, she wishes she had brought a cardigan. She decides to ignore it. At least the cold reminds her she's still alive. Still human.

Sometimes she can forget. Sometimes, under the expensive clothes, and the bright smiles, the looks of love she gives Joff, she forgets that she's not as hollow as she feels most days. She's so used to emptying herself, she forgets what it's like to be full of emotion. She forgets the simple joy of being able to yell at someone without fearing retribution, and admits it sometimes makes her act harsher towards the maids than she ought to. She's so used to pretending, pasting on her smile at parties, moaning less than convincingly when Joff comes in between her legs, she finds it hard to remember the last genuine bit of joy she's felt since her father was murdered. If she's felt any.

She's standing now, hands braced against the rail. The breeze whips past her, leaving goosepimples on her arms as it leaves. She can't help but smile as she remembers autumn at Winterfell. She remembers jumping in piles of leaves the groundsman, Hodor, would rake up, earning admonishing looks from Momma. She remembers freshly baked pumpkin pies and spiced apple cider Momma would serve for desserts. Sansa always took delicate sips and ladylike bites, unlike her sister Arya, who'd slurp and chomp like a pig.

A sudden shiver overtakes Sansa and she knows it's not the cold. It's the thought of Arya. Arya had come to The Landing with Daddy and Sansa that fateful summer too, but had ran the moment Daddy had been killed. Sansa wonders if she'd physically seen Daddy die too, or if she had just sensed it, and knew danger was close. Hoped life was safer on the run. Sansa hoped wherever she was, Arya had the sense to get a sweater. She was so skinny, the cold always cut right through her. Of course she does. She's a clever girl. Arya was always the more street smart of the two. The braver. And maybe the safer. You should have gone with her. You shouldn't be here.

Running hadn't even occurred to her at the time. She still believed it was a senseless murder. She thought the police would bring the murderer to justice. She thought Robb would take her home. She thought good would win, evil would perish, just like in her stories. But she soon found out Cersei and Joffery had arranged for Payne's bullet to go into Ned Stark's skull when he dug too far into how the Lannisters had kept his friend Robert so well-funded, and the only thing keeping her alive was her value as a bargaining tool. Robb closing the Lannister racketeering cases in exchange for her life. And even now, with Robb butchered by Lannister apologist Walter Frey, her life means less than nothing to the Lannisters. Maybe Joff would keep her around for a little while, until he got bored of the constant tortures he inflicted on her, but he has a new plaything, Margery Tyrell, heiress to the Highgarden Floral Boutique. It hurts to see him cavorting with her, truth be told. As much as she loathes him, technically she's still his fiancée, and to be so publicly involved with another woman hurts her pride. Of course, she acts more heartbroken than she is. And when he officially breaks the engagement she'll weep, though truthfully it will be for joy.

If he lets you live that long. Another chill runs through her. She highly doubts discarded mob whores had a high life expectancy. Somehow, she knows once her engagement ends, her life will follow quite shortly. And somehow, she doesn't care. What exactly is left to live for? She sits on the guardrail, facing her bedroom. She sees the vanity, where she puts on her makeup each morning, everyday a little heavier to cover a bruise or a cut, until it almost becomes a mask. And Cersei never fails to comment on how cheap it makes her look. She sees her closet, stuffed with expensive clothes and shoes, jewels that Joff loads her with, hoping shiny stuff distracts her from the pain in her ribs after a sound beating. She sees the bed, which is the scene of the most horrors, where near every night, her soul is stolen from her, bit by bit, until she starts to feel nothing, which is frankly more horrifying to her than when she would fight and cry. She studies the room, lavishly designed by Cersei, and possibly the most beautiful prison in the world. Is this what I'm living for? More faked smiles and orgasms until Payne put a bullet in her head, just like Daddy's? She turns her body on the guardrail until she's facing the garden. The sight of the room is making her sick.

The night is getting colder. She feels it, but it makes her bolder. Reminds her of who she is. She is a Stark of the North. Of Winterfell. She looks down onto the garden, lit by gas torches that Cersei thinks brings a certain medieval quality to the place. She wonders how bad it would hurt if she fell right now. Would she simply break a few bones? Land in a rosebush? On a torch? Would she survive?

Three stories is a long way to fall. Almost impossible to survive, even if she did land in grass. Her neck would break for sure. She smiles.

Maybe she's found her escape.

She could do it. Simply let go and fall into the breeze. She's a Stark. She's brave. And she won't let the Lannisters dictate her death. She could fall, and for a brief instant, she could fly. Yes, she'd fly away from her prison, and in a few moments, she'd be home. She lets the thoughts gather her. She remembers Winterfell, and Momma before she went made with grief. She remembers the babysmell of Ricky in her arms as she read to him from the big book of myths. She remembers watching Robb and his friend Theon in the backyard, running, boxing, lifting weights. She remembers Arya, sweaty and muddy after wrestling with her friend Mycah. Mostly, she remembers Daddy, his soft beard tickling her cheeks, remembers being his Princess, and riding on his shoulders like a queen in a litter. She lets the memory of home wash over her, and she lets the breeze whisper past her, urging her on. She's ready. She closes her eyes, and she leans slightly, and—

"Little bird sitting on her little perch, eh?" She feels a big hand rest firmly on her shoulder, and his warm touch is almost burning against the chill on the night. "Careful not to fall asleep there. You have the voice of a bird, not the balance."

Sandor Clegane. Joff's personal bodyguard, though recently, he's played the part of warden, making sure she didn't leave the grounds without Lannister sayso, and even then, following her to make sure she came back. Unlike Joff's other stooges, he never beat her, and even showed her some level of kindness, or at least as much as he could muster. Normally, a welcome sight. Now though, he was a nuisance. An interruption.

"Yes, Mr. Clegane?" she tries to keep her voice neutral, despite the irritation she feels. She can't let him know what she's planning. The last thing she wants is to lose her escape.

"Joff wants you tonight." Sansa flinches slightly, both at the statement, and the deadpan way he announces it.

"I can't. Sick." She says, hoping he'll have mercy on her and pass the lie on.

"You look fine"

"Tell him I was puking everywhere. Can barely stand. Probably contagious too."

"You look like Mary fucking Sunshine to me"

"Tell him I have goddamn malaria, ok? I don't care, just tell him I'm not coming" She feels tears prick at her, but she won't cry. She won't die in tears because of him. She'll die remembering Winterfell and Momma and Bran.

She feels another hand on her shoulder, gripping her tightly. "I'll tell him whatever you want, little bird. Just come inside."

"I'd rather stay out here if it's all the same to you." She feels herself being pulled back towards the room like she's being pulled to Hell. No. She holds on tightly to the rail.

"That's not the way to do it, little bird. You won't end up flying, you'll end up falling, and breaking that pretty little neck of yours and that fragile little heart of your mother's. Is that what you want?"

She's silent. He'll leave, eventually. They always leave eventually. And she'll be free.

"There are ways out of your little cage, and this isn't one of them."

"It could be"

"You think this is a fairy tale? You think you'll fall out of this tower and the witch will be defeated? You think you'll fall into death like it's a fucking cloud? You're wrong. It'll hurt. Worst pain you've ever felt. If you're lucky, you'll die after only a second or two. From this height, you probably won't be lucky. You'll linger, bleeding to death, in pain, bones broken, regretting this stupid, romantic little decision you made. And you know what else? You'll do that little bitch and her brat a huge favor. Got rid of yourself, no blood on their hands. Is that what you want?"

The breeze feels harsher now, less comforting. She feels doubt seep in. Is she playing right into their game? Are they waiting for her to give up, to do the hard work for them? She even starts to wonder if the room with the balcony wasn't an oversight.

"Sansa," his fingers are digging into her shoulders at this point, and she's sure she'll bruise in the morning, though this time, maybe the bruises will be welcome sights.

"I feel awful. Maybe a good night's rest will make me feel better," She swings a leg over the guardrail, and sets foot on the balcony. There are other ways out. "Don't let Joff worry over me, though. Must just be a stomach flu." She slides off the guardrail, and stands her ground firmly. "I'll be better in a few days. I just don't want my love getting sick because of me." She marches back into her cell, her warden at her back. "I'd feel just awful." She hears the glass door shut and lock, and she feels the stifling air, hot and humid compared to outside. She feels herself start to suffocate already. "Leave a window open, would you? Perhaps the fresh air will do me good."

Clegane looks at her suspiciously. "Doubt that's the best idea. Germs fly in all the time. Make people worse. Turn lethal,"

Sansa puts on a smile. "Perhaps you're right. If you could turn on the fan at least. A nice breeze will calm me down."

Clegane grunts his approval. "I'll stay close by tonight. In case you start to feel any worse." His voice makes it clear this isn't an offer. She figures as much.

"I'm sure I'll be just fine. But thank you for looking out for my well-being. Joff will appreciate it. I know it."

Clegane assesses her, whether she'll run to the window as soon as his back is turned. She walks towards her closet and pulls out pajamas. She hopes he thinks she has the dignity at least to not die a public death in her nightgown. He must, because he turns to leave.

"Mr. Clegane." He stops. He doesn't turn, but she has his attention. "Maybe tomorrow you could show me some more of The Landing. I'll be lady of this house soon, but I feel like I know so little of it. I want to know everything. Every nook, every cranny. You of all people must know every inch of this place,"

She can't see his face, but she can tell he's considering it. "We'll see. If you're feeling better in the morning, I mean."

Her smile is almost genuine this time, "I'm sure I'll be fine. Like I said, fresh air does me good,"


End file.
